


You've Got Issues, Kid

by motherteresalutherking



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Love and Longing, Romance, Suggestive Themes, True Love, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherteresalutherking/pseuds/motherteresalutherking
Summary: Greg is dating the perfect woman, a very cool person, but he doesn't feel the way he should, the way he...has in the past. Meanwhile, Rebecca hits rock bottom, and finding out about it will test Greg's sobriety. Basically, Greg's dad once told him "You've got issues, kid," and he was very not wrong.A reimagining of the middle of season three (304-307) from Greg’s point of view, including a very grebecca conclusion.





	1. Our Favorite Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I like writing in Greg's voice, and I post Greg Serrano things on tumblr at @tapenadeofreproach

Ashley's apartment is more pulled together than Rebecca's ever was. She has succulents and candles and decorative throw pillows and faux marble side tables, but no giant wall fish.

She's nestled into Greg's shoulder on a beige couch in a mostly beige room, and the TV flashes blue on their faces.

It's not only because they share a first name that Ashley reminds Greg of [Ashley Pratt](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5232516/mediaviewer/rm2720207104), his high school crush. She's also blonde, obviously pretty, and a few weeks ago she called him the kind of guy a girl could "settle down with," and he'd surprised himself a little when he hadn't felt a sudden urge to make a joke, or bail completely.

 _This is good. Right? This_ _is what happy feels like._

"Oh Greggy," Ashley coos, "I'm so glad you love Ben Affleck movies as much as I do. He's so underrated, ya know?"

Greg masks a reactive grimace with a flat-lipped smile.

"Wellll," he lilts, watching the TV as he challenges her, "I think 'love' is a strong word. I mean I said that I remember liking  _Chasing Amy..._ but I wouldn't call him 'underrated,' per se. But yeah like with  _Good Will Hunting,_  everybody gave Matt Damon all the credit just because he's more charming or likable or whatever, but who cares about being likable..."

He notices she's not really listening, trails off.

"OMG Shhh Greggy," she interrupts, "this is my favorite part!" She watches the TV, rapt, as Ben Affleck says something to Blake Lively in a thick Boston accent.

Greg inhales through his nose and rolls his eyes a little.

"You know," Ashley turns to Greg, signaling sincerity, "you look kinda like him."

"Wow—what? Who? Ben Affleck?" Greg giggles, incredulous, but flattered nonetheless.

"Yeah, I mean, it's not like a doppelganger situation, but you both have like this kinda roguish thing going on that really does it for me."

Greg, suddenly trying a bit too hard, raises a rhetorical eyebrow, "Oh? So what _, exactly,_ does my roguishness do for you?" He’s putting on a low, seductive tone. 

"Well, why don't you just let me show you," she teases, also trying a bit too hard as she climbs languidly onto his lap.

They start making out and as they're finding a more horizontal position on the couch, Greg pulls his wallet out of his back pocket to get comfortable, tossing it onto the coffee table. It flops open and some of the contents fall halfway out, including a [black and white photo strip](https://tapenadeofreproach.tumblr.com/post/185386659809/ill-never-not-need-to-know-the-circumstances).

Pictures of Greg and Rebecca.

In the last photo, Greg's pretending to shush her and Rebecca's mugging playfully for the camera. 

* * *

Rebecca's face stares blankly into the bottom of the top bunk in her hostel room, but her mind is elsewhere, and Josh's words from the carnival echo in her head: _Leave. Me. Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone._

Alone.

She springs up, almost bumping her head on the top bunk. She has an idea (probably not a good one).

She reaches purposefully into her bag and pulls out a prescription pill bottle and on the label a few words stand out to Rebecca: "AMBIEN" and "TAKE ONE BY MOUTH AT BEDTIME" and "DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL." She shrugs and throws back several of the pills, then grabs her bag and heads toward the door.

She doesn't stop as she shouts "Well, I need a drink. See ya later!" to her bunkmate.

He doesn't look up, and Rebecca doesn't wait for him to respond before she exits.

***

She approaches a dark bar on East Cameron (Greg's study bar), and steels herself before walking in. She's on a mission to self-destruct, to make bad decisions.

Alone.

And she walks through the swinging saloon-like doors.

* * *

Greg exits the double doors of a library on the Emory campus, and _Damn, it's hot here_. 

The syrupy Georgia humidity hits him and he's instantly sweating (it probably doesn't help that he's still wearing his uniform of jeans and t-shirt and a button-down). He wipes his forehead and squints in the sunlight, then smiles as a blonde in a trendy floral romper bounces toward him.

"Hey Greggy!" Ashley calls as she walks up. "Still not used to this heat, huh? You So Cal people think you know from heat. Puh-leeease."

"Yeah," Greg agrees, "It's just a different kind of hot here. It's like I'm swimming in it or something. How is it still this hot in October?"

“Crazy right? Let’s get you in the car and blast the AC!”

Greg smiles. It's nice, how she zeroes in on how he's feeling right away. _She's so attentive, so available, so thoughtful. Predictable. The perfect woman._

They walk toward the parking lot and head to his car, holding hands.

_It’s way too hot to be holding hands._

"It's been a day," he starts, "Did way worse on that econ exam than I'd expected. And we got our group assignments for the next big project and presentation, and you know how much I _love_ group work."

"Oh, Greggy, what'd you get, a B?" Greg nods. "That is _not_ a bad grade! And if you just go into it with the right attitude, I'm sure the group work won't be that bad, either," she offers.

This is not the first time she's shared this kind of Pollyanna wisdom with Greg, who rolls his eyes. He likes that she's positive, but hates that she calls him Greggy, especially in that tone, because it reminds him of Shawna, er, Mom.

"You don't get it," he spits back, "The group work—they're all these millennials, and they're just obnoxious with their skinny jeans and their Snapchat. Ugh."

"Um, hello,  _you_ are a millennial, dummy," she teases as they get into the car.

"No, no. I'm an Xennial. I took that quiz in  _The Guardian,_ remember?"

Greg pulls onto the street and glances over at Ashley, who's checking her makeup in her phone camera instead of in the visor mirror. Typical millennial.

"Anyway, I mean, you're probably right, but it's just frustrating sometimes, being older. Sometimes I just wish I hadn't waited so long to do this."

"But," she argues playfully, stroking the nape of his neck with her hand, "if you hadn't waited this long, then you never would have met me!"

"True. That's very true," he half smiles, staring at the road, or maybe just into the middle distance.

Ashley changes the subject, "Well, it's so hot that I thought we could stay in tonight, and watch my favorite Ben Affleck movie of all time. What do you think?"

"Sure, if you want," he reaches over and gives her kneecap a squeeze, "which movie is that, again?”

"Oh, I'm not telling, it's a surprise," she says, "but I know you'll like it because it's like about history and I know you like history because you're always watching those boring documentaries on PBS."

"Hm, okay, cool, surprise me. I'll bring some food and come by at 8? How about tacos?"

"It's a date! But, no tacos—too spicy. Let's get burgers?"

"Sure."

* * *

Greg is planted on Ashley's beige couch. He spends a lot of time here, waiting, but he doesn't really mind. It's comfortable—the couch, and this relationship. It's easy.

He swipes around on his phone.

"Hey I'm gonna be a few minutes. I need to finish doing my hair," Ashley calls from the other room, "Okay Greggy?"

Greg pulls a face. He really needs to tell her to stop calling him that.

"Kay. I'll just watch TV while I wait." 

He turns it on and flips the channel over from Bravo to PBS and the title card to a Ken Burns-ish film comes up: _The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911._  And Greg can't stop himself from smiling and pausing the TV and without thinking, going into his phone and thumbing down his contacts and landing on "Bunch." He's _got_ to text Rebecca a picture of this title card.

He already knows what he’ll caption it: “It’s our favorite fire! (fire emoji)."

And Greg feels warm as he considers that word:  _Our_. _Our_ favorite fire. And his eyes smile without his permission. 

But then Greg's eyes read the rest of the name he'd assigned her in his contacts after leaving West Covina: "Bunch DO NOT CALL HER.”

He catches himself as his finger hovers over her number. And in the same way he'd often wondered how he'd arrived at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, he wonders how he arrived here in this moment, so close to self-destruction. Again. He's glad Guardrail and Barry have taught him how to pause in these moments.

"Greggy, can you get some plates for the food?" Ashley calls from the other room.

 _Damnit, the food_. "Oh, sorry," he calls back, "I totally forgot to get the food! I'll just order and get it delivered. What did you want again? A cheeseburger?"

She responds, but he doesn't hear her because he looks down to find he's accidentally hit the call button. He's called Bunch DO NOT CALL HER. He’s paralyzed for a beat, and then a small, desperate voice comes out of the phone: "Gregory? Greg? Greg?"

He hangs up, reflexively, at the sound of Rebecca saying his name. He hasn't heard someone call him "Gregory" in ages. And was that desperation he'd heard in her voice? Or exasperation? Was she eager to hear him, or was she annoyed? Wait, why does he care? Why the fuck does he keep on caring about this woman. He's so mad at himself he could scream. 

He looks around the room for something, then realizes what he's looking for: _A drink. And a glass. And ice._

He's got to get out of here. A walk.

“I'm going to go pick up the food myself. You can start the movie without me. I'll be right back."

He doesn't wait to see if she heard him, just rushes out the door.

* * *

Rebecca and Marco burst into Marco's bedroom, laying sloppy kisses on one another, a reckless energy that looks more like fear than desire.

Rebecca pulls back, and she can barely see him even though he's right in front of her.

"Old Greg, er, Mr. Serrano, I, wait, ergh..." she's making no sense, and Marco screws up his face, confused and a little bewildered. The sleeping pills plus alcohol are really kicking in for her. The six glasses of scotch are really kicking in for him.

Rebecca points a finger in the air like she's making a decree and slurs, "Shend in the patchents!" then laughs a little before deflating, "I'm gonna just take a quick lil cat-na—" and she slumps over into what looks exactly like a "[classic Serrano pass out](https://media.vanityfair.com/photos/580a382ac6ac95617284b92d/master/h_590,c_limit/white-josh-uber.gif)" at the foot of Marco's bed.

"Well," says Marco, barely under his breath, "I gotta keep this crazy bitch away from Greg."

"What a pair you two are," says a sober woman's voice, and Marco looks toward it, his drunken eyes moving now at half-speed. Gladys, Marco’s nurse, is standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Oh, can it, Gladys!" he slurs, "I'm not payin you to judge me! Now, help me lifts this dumb broad into the bed shoshe doesn't pash out in her own vomit."

They lift her into the bed and Gladys adjust Rebecca so she's on her side, then she starts to ask Marco, "And where exactly are you going to slee--" but stops when she sees he's already on the other side of the bed, passed out.

Gladys shakes her head, and waves dismissively as she leaves the room, muttering to herself, "Ah, let those drunks sleep it off."

And they do.

* * *

Ashley's lounging on the couch, wearing the latest in pastel Lululemon athleisure, and perfectly coiffed for Netflix and chill night, when Greg comes through the door, bag of burgers in-hand. He looks refreshed. It seems the walk worked.

"Hey Ashley, sorry, I forgot the food and I just needed a walk anyway."

"It's totally fine, Greggy! Come sit. I just started the movie."

"Oh, good. Yeah, the walk helped. Today was just weird and kind of terrible. It was like Pearl Harbor meets the movie _Pearl Harb—_ "

He glances at the screen and interrupts himself, "Wait, _this_ is your favorite Ben Affleck movie of all time? The movie you thought I'd really like ‘because I like history’? _Pearl Harbor_?"

"No silly!" she starts, and Greg is temporarily relieved. "It's my favorite movie _of all time_ , period. Ben Affleck or not!"

Greg offers a mocking expression, "Seriously?" He's judging her, openly.

"Yes, of course," she’s getting her back up a little, "It's...a classic!"

"A 'classic'? Wow, I think we're really lowering the bar for _that_ term aren't we?" he snorts back, and without an iota of charm.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ashley looks legitimately hurt.

Greg notices, and he softens, drops the mocking face, "Ugh, I don't know. I'm a jerk. I'm sorry."

But he does know. He just realized it: _We just don't get each other._

It's not just about her taste in movies (though, yikes), but it's something he can't quite put his finger on. All he knows is, something is missing. A feeling is missing—a feeling he's only ever felt with Rebecca, and specifically, when he made her laugh.

_This is not what happy feels like. This is what settling feels like._

But she takes his apology and he sits down, despite himself, on the sofa and obediently, like a well-trained dog, he puts his arm around Ashley. Because this is what he does now. She snuggles up to him, and while his body language feels reassuring, to her, Greg's face stares back blankly at the TV, nonplussed.

And he could really use a pillow behind the small of his his back. He squirms slightly then grabs a pillow adorned with— _What is this, sequins?_ —and places it behind him.

"Ooh, don't squish my fancy pillows, Greggy! Those are just for show. Here, you can use this other one." She hands him a less ornate pillow from the other end of the couch.

"Thanks.”

Remembering the food, Ashley jumps up, "I'm gonna plate up these burgers. Can you pause it?"

She heads to the kitchen and he pauses the TV, and Ben Affleck's face is frozen in a particularly douchey expression.

 _Yeah_ , Greg decides, _I look nothing like that guy._

He grabs his phone and swipes three screens over, to where he'd buried the Words with Friends app months ago, since it always reminded him of her (but he couldn't bring himself to delete it). He scrolls to Rebecca in his list of friends. Under her name it says _Last played six months ago_. It says the same thing under his own name. The last time they both played was against one another, probably.

He wonders if Rebecca deleted the app, and he hears Ashley still puttering around in the kitchen.

"What do you want to drink?" she calls to him.

If only he could answer that honestly. "Ah, just water please."

Greg clicks on her name and chooses to "start a new game" against Rebecca.

The prompt on the screen asks him to choose "Classic" or "Fast play". He chooses "Classic." He's in no rush.

The board pulls up, and he goes first to initiate the game. His letters: U, F, A, R, E, I, W.

Greg's first move is not a big winner of a word—it's pretty bad, actually, scoring him just seven measly points—but it's the _right_ word: FIRE


	2. I Can't Care This Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg can't care this much. Caring, for him, is very inconvenient. It'll ruin everything. But he thinks about her—all the time, a lot—and it's a problem.

Greg's on his knees next to the toilet, leaning over the side of the bathtub, saying the third step prayer. Half-heartedly, yes, but he’s doing it.

Barry, Greg's sponsor, told him he needs to start doing this more regularly, even if it just feels like going through the motions, which it does.

As Barry puts it, “The honeymoon’s over for you, dude.” Now Greg is in the everyday slog of staying sober.

Barry says he doesn't have to pray to a god, but that he can designate anything as his "higher power"—even a doorknob—as long as it's not himself.  _The point is to remind yourself that you're not the ultimate authority on everything_ , Greg can hear Barry saying in his head as his knees sink into the bath mat. 

So because Greg was raised to basically worship the Rat Pack, he replaces "God" with "Frank," as in "Sinatra" (as in the guy, not the macaw) when he does this morning ritual.

"Frank," he starts, then mutters a rote combination of words he's said about thousand times by now, and he slows down a little at his favorite part, "...relieve me of the bondage of self..." He likes this part because it puts words to how he's always felt but could never articulate—like he's caught in a trap of his own making, tied up inside himself. That's how he's feeling right now, which is why he's on his knees.

Greg climbs back to his feet and as he brushes his teeth, he thinks about his day. It's Saturday, which means he's gotta go to work at the bookstore. Then a meeting. Then Ashley's. These places, plus the Emory campus, constitute the bubble Greg's created for himself in Atlanta. They're safe places, and he rotates between them happily, grateful to be busy so he doesn't have too much time to think.

He goes to the kitchen, pours coffee into a travel mug, and heads out the door, whistling.

He likes Saturday mornings at the bookstore because when it's not busy, he can get ahead on his studying, or just read. Even when it is busy, it feels good to be selling books to inquiring minds instead of making cocktails for bored moms.

The only thing he misses about working at Home Base is _her_.

 _Her_ , perched on a barstool across from him. Flirting with him and causing him to constantly debate whether to focus on her eyes (green like wow) or her breasts (altogether wow).

 _Her_ , making his shift pass by more quickly when she was there, cracking silly jokes. Making him laugh more promptly and cleverly than just about anyone he'd ever met, even (especially?) when the jokes were at his own expense.

 _Her_ , barging through the door at closing time and telling him he's not second choice. And delivering it so sincerely that he still has a hard time believing it turned out to be untrue.

 _Her_ , in the stockroom. Becoming the only thing more addictive and all-consuming for him than the booze they kept in that same room, and initiating the best two weeks of his life.

Generally, missing Rebecca has become like breathing for Greg, an autonomic response, just part of being alive and conscious. He’s almost learned to ignore it.

But this past week, that dull ache has turned into a more acute state of longing, and ruminating—he can't stop thinking about Rebecca. _Why hasn't she responded to his Words with Friends game yet, and more importantly, why had she sounded so desperate, or exasperated (maybe sad?), when he’d  accidentally called her last week._

Rebecca’s small voice coming out of his phone— _Gregory? Greg? Greg?—_ is the first thing that comes to mind when he lets it wander. 

As he climbs into his car, he finds his thoughts going to Rebecca and suddenly he’s wishing his black coffee were an Irish coffee. But nowadays, Greg knows what to do when he gets thirsty like this.

Before pulling away, Greg sends off a text to Barry: _Hey, can you stick around to talk for a few after the meeting tonight?_

Barry responds right away: _Of course. You okay?_

Greg: _Yeah, there's just something I think I need to do and I need your help._

* * *

Marco wakes up to a pounding head and a screeching macaw.

"Oh, shove it, Tormé," he barks from the bed, eyes half open. Then he remembers about that crazy girl and sits up with a start and looks next to him. No one's there. He hopes maybe it was a dream, but he's pretty sure it wasn't. He gets up and throws on an old brown bathrobe.

"Gladys!" Marco heads into the living room and hollers over the shriek of the birds, "Did you see some broad leave here this morning?"

"No," she comes into the room with a judgmental frown, oxygen tank in tow, "but I helped you put her to bed last night. What was that anyway—you know you can't be drinking like that!"

Gladys is not young, but she's a lot younger than Marco, which makes it all the more odd, how much she has to mother him.

"When you say 'put her to bed,'" he wheezes, then coughs, "what do you mean? I mean, had we, I was pretty far gone myself, so do you know if we had, uh..." he clicks his tongue twice.

"Ugh, gross. Good god, no," she rolls her eyes.

"That poor girl passed out as soon as you got here, and so did you. But not before making such a racket you woke me up in the next room, thankyouverymuch."

Gladys motions for Marco to come sit so she can set up his oxygen.

But he's in no hurry and ignores Gladys's summons. Instead, he grabs a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the cabinet, raises it as if to toast, saying, "Hair of the dog."

"What was wrong with her anyway, did you drug her or something?" she only half jokes.

"Ha!" he laughs, "of course not! Whaddya take me for? I'm a gentleman. I seduced her with my quick wit and kind eyes." He winks.

Gladys shoots him a dubious look.

"Okay, okay," he admits, "She must have had a few drinks or something before she got to the bar. But she was upset, I took pity on her. She's still hung up on Greg, the poor kid."

"Wait, hung up on Greg? As in, your son, Greg? What do you mean she's hung up on—" she puts it together, "Ohhh. Ugh, you really are a terrible person, you know that?"

"Ah c'mon, I woulda been doing him a favor. She's crazy! When I told her how well Greg's doing, she asked for his girlfriend's 'first and last name,' and 'middle name in case it's common.' She's a real piece a work, that one."

"Psssh," Gladys shakes her head, "It takes one to know one."

* * *

“No share tonight, huh?" Barry asks Greg as they exit the side door of the church. They move over to a bench next to the sidewalk as a dozen or so people stream out the door from the meeting.

"Yeah, no, I wasn't feeling it. I'm too in my head right now."

"You know that's kinda the point, right?" Barry tells him, lightly mocking. "You've gotta get that stuff out so it doesn't start telling you what to do. But that's also why we're talking now. What's up?"

Greg rubs his head with his hand and sighs, "I did something stupid."

"What?"

"Ugh, I contacted my ex, accidentally but also on purpose, and I need your help to make it end."

Barry shrugs, "What?"

"Okay, this is going to sound really dumb, but I tried to start a word game with her—Words with Friends—it's an app. Anyway, for us, though, it's a not as innocent as that sounds. Word games, for us, were kinda like...ya know, foreplay?" Greg hears himself and puts his face in his hands, embarrassed.

"Anyway, Ashley doesn't know, and I just feel like a jerk, and I always mess everything up, and I--"

He's spiraling and Barry waves his hands and cuts him off.

"Okay, okay, got it. So...just stop the game? No big deal, right? Why'd you start the game in the first place?"

"Well, I guess that's the real problem," Greg realizes as he saying it, "I--I can't stop thinking about her."

"Is this that Rebecca girl you told me about? The one back in West Covina?"

Greg exhales, for what feels like the first time all day, "Yeah, that's the one."

"Look," Barry starts, "from what you've told me, this relationship was a real shitshow, and you know I'm an actuary so I'm not going to give you risky advice," he puts his hand on Greg's shoulder, "but I think you need to stop dicking around and get real closure with her, or it's really gonna come back and bite you in the ass at some point."

Greg furrows his brow. It's not getting through.

"Um, we have closure. That's why I came all the way across the country. I mean it's partly why. I also came because I got this money and--"

"Not to get all twelve-steppy on you, man, but 'Wherever you go, there you are.' You know that by now--you bring all that crap with you, dude, no matter how far away you think you are from it."

Greg closes his eyes and nods. He knows Barry's right.

Barry goes on, "You need to actually call her, or go see her, don't play games--not figurative games or literal word games."

Greg tilts his head back and raises his eyebrows. This is a daunting suggestion.

"Remember your old dodge ball coach?" Barry continues, "Remember how you tried to take a shortcut there? You tried to like one of his Facebook posts and count that as making amends to him?"

Greg does a faux pouty face that means he's guilty as charged.

Barry goes on, "All you had to do to make that right was to call him up and say, 'Hey man sorry for showing up to practice drunk all the time and sorry for hitting on your daughter at that one tournament.' That's all you had to do, and how hard was that?"

Greg shoots his head forward and looks sideways at Barry, "Um, it was _incredibly_ hard?"

Barry gives Greg a resting Maggie Smith face. He's not screwing around.

"Ugghh, I knew you'd say that. Okay, fine. I'll call her. Tomorrow. But, as a first step, can you delete this app from my phone for me, because I just--" he unlocks his phone and notices a notification.

"Hold on."

_3 missed calls call from Heather Davis._

And a text message: _Hey dude, give me a call. It's about Rebecca._

And just like that, Greg's bubble is popped.

* * *

Greg was supposed to be at Ashley's two hours ago, but he's been sitting in his car.

First, he sat in his car in the church parking lot as he called Heather back, and after they talked he stayed there for a while. The news she’d shared—Josh leaving Rebecca at the altar, Rebecca’s breakdown and her suicide attempt—felt like a blow to his head, like a concussion. And his heart felt like it was screaming out of his chest. All he could think was,  _Why? Why would Josh do that to her? Why would she do that to herself?_ He’s furious with them both. He hadn’t felt this kind of angry—the kind that makes his vision blurry—in months. He’d waited for his vision to get clear again before driving away.

Then, he sat in his car outside of the 7-11 for about 40 minutes, arguing with himself, sometimes out loud, about whether to go in and grab a six-pack.  _It's just beer. Light beer. It'll take the edge off._ Thankfully, he's learned it's best to ignore his inner Hector.

Now, he's sitting in the parking lot of Ashley's apartment complex, and he's unable to peel himself from his seat. He is so, so sad, and he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, and he knows that if she tries to Pollyanna at him right now he'll put his fist through a wall.

He dials Marco, who doesn't answer. Typical.

He texts Ashley: _I can't tonight. I need to study. I'm sorry._

* * *

It's hot in Greg's apartment. The air conditioner hasn't been working well and the super has been slow to repair it because it’s October. But it still gets pretty warm during the days and it’s still muggy because this is Georgia.

Greg hardly notices the heat, though, because he’s just sitting on the edge of his bed trying not to drink, his thoughts stuck in a maddening loop: _She's okay, she's fine. This wasn't about me. But how do I know that. I can't ask her. I need to know she's really okay. Why do I care so much? I can't care this much. What does it mean that I care this much? I need a drink. No, no. She's okay, she's fine. This wasn't about me...I can't care this much. I can't care this much. I can't care this much..._

There's a knock on the door, then he hears the deadbolt turning. It's Ashley, the only other person with a key. It's not like her to just come in like that though. She's big on courtesies.

"Greggy?" he hears her from the bedroom.

"Hey, it’s me. Are you okay? Your text had me worried, and then I texted you but didn't hear back and—yeesh, it's hot in here—" she stops short as she comes in the room and sees his face.

"Whoa, what's wrong?"

He knows what was happening in his head, but he didn’t realize he was wearing it on his face, too.

She sits down next to him on the bed and asks again, "What's wrong?"

He doesn't know how to start. 

“Well, I just heard some bad news, about one of my friends back home."

"Oh no, what happened, how can I help?"

 _God, she is always so good. So thoughtful. She always says the right thing. She always cares so well, and sincerely. She'd ne_ _ver, ever leave him like his mom did. How can he tell her that the "friend" is probably the love of his life and she tried to take her life and he can't bear the thought of that and that's the reason he can't see straight right now?_

Instead, he just says, "It's a long story."

Ashley comes around from the side of him and gets in front of him, puts her hands on both his shoulders, her worried brown eyes looking deeply into his sad hazel ones.

"Greggy, I can tell you're really upset. You don't have to talk about it now, but just let me be here for you, please? I'll sit with you. We can just watch TV. I'll order a pizza. We don't have to talk."

"Sure, that, that's a good idea," he manages.

She nods, stands up, glad to have a plan, but she still looks worried and confused.

It throws Greg for a loop when people want to take care of him like this. He's not used to it. It's nice, but kind of unsettling, too.

She deserves an explanation.

"It's my ex," he blurts.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My ex-girlfriend. I mentioned her before--Rebecca. She's the one who's, well, she got hurt."

"Oh, no. Was she in an accident?"

"I don't know all the details," he lies. Heather had told him everything.

"Ah, okay. Well I get that. I mean, I'm friends with some of my exes."

_Good lord, is she an actual saint? How is she this understanding?_

"You don't have to tell me more about it now if it's hard. Let's just watch a boring documentary or something until the pizza comes."

"Okay."

When the pizza gets there almost an hour later, it's almost 10 pm. Greg and Ashley have been sitting on the couch, not talking about it, watching a documentary, and she's running her hands through his short dark curls.

His looping thoughts have quieted some.

Ashley gets up to get the door then calls back to him, "Do you have any cash? I'm a little short on the tip."

"Oh, yeah, I'll get it. There's a twenty in my wallet, on the table next to the door."

Ashley comes back in the room with the pizza and a facial expression Greg doesn't recognize on her. _Anger? No. Disappointment? Confusion, maybe?_

"Is this her?" she accuses, holding up the well-worn black and white photo strip from his wallet.

"I mean, I have pictures of my exes lying around in some box somewhere too, probably. But you carry this around in your wallet? Why—why do you do that?"

Greg doesn't have words. He just looks down.

"Didn't you say she got married to your friend or something? Kinda weird to be carrying around a picture of your best friend's wife, dontcha think?" It's not really a question.

Greg doesn't know how to respond, so he just says, "I forgot it was in there."

"You forgot it was in your wallet next to your cash, where you see it like every day? Okay, sure," she says sharply.

"Are you ready to talk about what happened to your 'friend' now? She's not dead, right? Why are you this upset?" She makes air quotes around the word, "friend."

He needs to just say it.

"She tried to kill herself, and I think it might be partly my fault."

"Whoa. That's crazy." She feels bad for being so harsh, for a moment.

"Why would it be your fault? Greggy, you're, this is just--" she puts down the pizza and starts toward him.

_Greggy._

He can’t help himself, "Ashley, I'm sorry for not telling you this sooner, but please don't call me Greggy. I really hate it."

And he wishes he could stuff the words back in.

She looks hurt, and he feels bad, but that doesn't keep him from saying this next thing because if he doesn't say it now, he's not sure he ever will.

"It's not just that she tried to kill herself and I think it might be my fault, though that's true. It's also,” he looks down as though he's searching for a drop of courage in a deep, deep well at his feet, "It's also that I think, I mean, I _know_ that I'm still in love with her."

He tries to read Ashley’s face, but he can't. He's never seen her this un-sunny before and it doesn't even look like her. Her eyes look wet, though, so that's not good.

"I'm sorry," he tries, "I just. I've been thinking about her lately. All the time. A lot. And—“

"Just stop," she interjects, "that is _not_ helping. And I...I don’t deserve this.”

_She's right. She doesn't deserve this._

She looks through him.

"I don't need to hear any more. I can't believe this. I'm going to leave now, Greg-guh."

It's a hard stop on that last "g," and he wishes he hadn't chosen now to correct the way she says his name.

She leaves without even looking him in the face, throwing her keys on the table on her way out.

It's hot in Greg's apartment, and he's thirstier than he's been in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s Greg/Rebecca interaction in the next chapter!


	3. Cielito Lindo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is a glutton for punishment, Rebecca needs to get out of her therapy bubble, and they need to talk.

Greg hates Halloween even more than he used to, now that he's sober. So he'd stayed in on the holiday, avoided the the throngs of adults in costume—especially all the women dressed up as sexy versions of occupations, mostly because one of those women might be Ashley. She'd been excited about her sexy barista costume, and most of the few friends he's made in Atlanta were friends with her first. So, safer to stay home, he'd figured. In fact, he's been avoiding most places besides the bookstore and class, for fear of bumping into her.

He hasn't even been attending his regular meetings, because he knows Barry will ask him if he's called Rebecca yet.

But tonight, he really needs to get out of his apartment because it feels like it's closing in on him, so Greg goes to a bar.

He tells himself it's not a bar because technically, it's a Mexican restaurant  _with_ a bar. And he tells himself he's only sitting _at_ the bar because sitting at a table alone makes him feel like a loser.

And so far, he's doing all right. He orders tacos and a side of guacamole and a seltzer. 

He finishes his seltzer while he's still waiting for his food, so he flags the bartender, who nods. Coming right up. He doesn't want to be impatient, like his old customer, Deb, but his hand feels uncomfortably empty without a glass in it right now.

The funny thing is—not haha funny, sad funny—he's actually not thinking about Rebecca for a moment when, because it happens to be Dia de Los Muertos, there's a live Mariachi band at the restaurant, and because fate has a cruel and ironic sense of humor, [they start playing _Cielito Lindo_](https://tapenadeofreproach.tumblr.com/post/185305094319/the-cielito-lindo-refrain-theyre-dancing-to).

_Of course._

Then the bartender puts a tequila on the rocks down in front of Greg and moves on to help someone else. It's a mistake—probably meant for the other white guy with dark hair and a slightly Paul Rudd-ish look who's sitting in the same spot on the opposite side of the horseshoe-shaped bar.

Greg doesn't send the drink back.

And because he's a glutton for punishment, Greg decides to actually listen to the lyrics to  _Cielito Lindo_ for the first time in his whole life. He must have heard this song a million times—Mariachi bands are all over the place in So Cal—but this is the first time he's actually thought to put his eight years of Spanish to use and translate the lyrics. And as he does, he can't help but think back to dancing with Rebecca at the taco festival. It was such a great date, until it wasn't.  

> _Ay, ay, ay, ay,_ _Canta y no llores / P_ _orque cantando se alegran /_ _Cielito lindo, los corazones._
> 
> **_Sing and don't cry, for singing, pretty darling, makes hearts happy._**

He thinks of how happy she looked when they locked eyes before they both cartoonishly belted the word "corazones"—hearts—together. His chest feels a little tight, and then, muscle memory takes over and he drinks half the tequila. And, wow, he's missed this. 

> _Pájaro que abandona / Cielito lindo, su primer nido / Si lo encuentra ocupado / Cielito lindo, bien merecido._
> 
> **_A bird that abandons his first nest, pretty darling, then finds it occupied by another, deserves to lose it._**

Okay, that's a bit on the nose, but it still hurts. He finishes the glass, and this is like riding a bike. He catches the bartender's gaze and motions for another drink.

> _Ese lunar que tienes / Cielito lindo, junto a la boca / No se lo des a nadie / Cielito lindo, que a mí me toca._
> 
> **_That beauty mark you have next to your mouth, pretty darling, don't share with anyone but me, who appreciates it._**

He thinks of the crinkles in her nose when she laughs, and how her left eye is slightly greener than her right eye. A deep, long drink. A pause, then he cocks his head back to open up his throat and make quick work of what remains in the glass. The bartender is nearby so he just knocks on the bar, like an asshole, to request another. 

> _Una flecha en el aire / Cielito lindo, lanzó Cupido / Una flecha en el aire / Cielito lindo, que a mí me ha herido._
> 
> **_Cupid shot an arrow, pretty darling, and though he was playing, I was wounded._**

Well. He's never noticed how romantic this song is. But the tequila's working, and he's starting to feel a lot less...well, just less. Which is just what he was after.

* * *

When Barry arrives to peel Greg off the bar, he's more annoyed than shocked or disappointed. A retired wine-o with a couple decades of being an AA sponsor under his belt, he's seen this many times before. Almost nobody makes it through their first year without a setback, and this is a relatively mild one.

At least Greg had had the good sense to call before he was too drunk to tell Barry where he was. Well, kinda.

"I'm at the taco feshtival!" Greg had slurred into the phone.

"What? Dude, slow down, you're not making any sense."

"[Amn't I](https://tapenadeofreproach.tumblr.com/post/185100159174/greg-being-both-the-worst-and-the-best-at-the-same?is_related_post=1)?"

Barry sighed.

"I shaid I'm at Pancho's!" Greg finally said, impatiently.

"Okay that's definitely not what you said, but okay, yeah, I'm coming. Just stay there. _Don't go anywhere_. You hear me? Don't move."

" _You_ don't go anywheres!"

By the time Barry shows up, Greg has assumed the position of "classic Serrano pass-out," and is fully asleep on the bar. Barry closes out Greg's large tab and gets him home.

* * *

"You don't get it," Greg argues with Barry, his head feeling like it's in a vice as he fills a styrofoam cup with black coffee behind the rows of folding chairs in a church basement, "I can't just call her up. She's what got me into that mess last night. I mean, thinking about her is what—you know what I mean. It's not my fault the band started playing that song, man."

"No," says Barry, " _You_ got yourself into that mess. This is all entirely your fault. What the hell were you even doing there?"

"Ugh, I don't know. I just didn't want to be alone anymore I guess. It's like I either live like a monk, or _this_ happens."

Barry reassures him, "Hey, I've seen much worse. The fact that you're back in this room today, and not on a week-long bender right now means you've made a lot of progress. It's not about how long you stay sober, but about how quickly you bounce back when you slip."

"Thanks, man." Greg means it. That perspective does help.

They take their seats in the back row, the meeting is about to start and the donation basket is coming around. Greg grabs his wallet and pulls out two dollars, and along with it, the photo strip, which he quickly shoves back in, but not before Barry sees it. He grabs the basket from Greg and gives him a knowing look. Busted.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Greg says under his breath.

* * *

It's not until she checks her voicemail ( _Who leaves a voicemail these days?_ ) that Rebecca realizes how much she's missed the sound of Greg's voice.

_Hey, Bunch. I hope it's okay I just called like this. I—I was gonna text I mean, we’re past courtesy, right. Heh, okay anyway texting felt weird and, well, give me a call back, or text if it's easier. Whatever. Just wanted to, I just wanna see how you're doing. [long pause, like he's about to hang up] Oh, and also, I butt-dialed you a couple weeks back, and just wanted to say sorry about that but also I saw this documentary on PBS and thought you’d...ahh! I'm rambling. Okay I'm gonna go. Anyway, I hope to hear from you soon. Uh, bye._

He sounds nervous, and sweet, and self-deprecating, and just so very...Greg. The particular timbre of his voice—low, but lilting, a faint growl beneath it—makes her feel warm. It puts her oddly at ease, despite that the content of the message is so scattered.

But then she remembers about Marco, and the warm feeling vanishes. It's replaced a cool, knotted-up feeling of shame and guilt and dread in the pit of her stomach.

Rebecca listens to Greg's message three more times before calling Paula.

"Whoa, Cookie, I don't think this is a good idea," Paula says tenderly but firmly. Rebecca can hear some fear underneath it, too. "I mean, you just got your diagnosis and you're doing so great with all your workbooks and—"

Rebecca's getting tired of everyone handling her with kid gloves.

"But," Rebecca protests, "Remember, Dr. Shin told me I need to get out of my 'therapy bubble' and 'take steps into the real world.' What could be realer than having a conversation with my ex-boyfriend about how I accidentally had sex with his dad?"

Paula exhales, "Rebecca! That is not a _step_! That's like a _nose-dive_ , or, or, a _belly-flop_!"

"Paula, I need to tell Greg about Marco, and it's not like I can send him a text message about it. I know what I need to do. Plus, I need...I need to prove to myself that I can do the right thing here. And also, I don't want Marco telling Greg before I do because then he'll hate me more, I mean I—I'll hate me more."

Paula can tell she's not going to talk Rebecca out of this.

"Okay," she gives in, "When are you gonna do it?"

"Good question...Thanksgiving is next week, right?

* * *

"Dad," Greg can hear that he's competing with the macaws for his Marco's attention, so he raises his voice, "sorry I can't make it home for Thanksgiving. It's just so expensive to travel and for just four days, and I have a huge econ exam on Tuesday, and—am I on speakerphone?"

"Don't worry about it, Greg! I've got invites to turkey dinner from a few foxy widows from here at the retirement community. I'll tell ya, these women are loose!"

Greg rolls his eyes, hard, and makes a disgusted face at the phone. He won't acknowledge that with a response.

"Seriously, dad, why am I on speakerphone?"

"I like to be able to use my hands, Greg! And Gladys is here, too. Say hi, Gladys."

"Hi, Greg," she humors Marco.

"Hi Gladys," he humors Marco, too.

"Speakin of loose women," Marco starts, "I ran into that ex uh yours a few weeks back. What a piece of work that one is."

"Wait, what? Who? Rebecca? You saw her? When? Where?" Greg's voice is getting higher with each question.

"Ehh, a few weeks ago, who knows. Saw her at that bar you used to go to--not your work, the other one. Anyway, I told her about you and that gal you're seein and she seemed pretty torn up about it. Ended up getting herself over-served and I had to let her sleep here at the house. What a piece a work." He says it like it's nothing.

"Dad, are you kidding me? You're just now telling me this?"

Gladys chimes in, "I told him to tell you sooner."

"Thanks, Gladys. Okay. I've gotta go."

* * *

The Atlanta airport is huge. Rebecca has to take a creepy underground "plane train" six stops from her concourse to ground transportation, and she sits down next to a woman with a small dog in a carry-on.

"So, how do you know your dog won't have to go use the bathroom while you're on the plane?" Striking up conversation with random strangers is one way Rebecca copes when she's nervous. "I've always wondered that—I've never really had a pet."

It takes her this long to notice the woman is not responding. Then she just shakes her head at Rebecca and points to her earbuds. _Typical millennial_.

She looks around for another distraction. On the plane, she'd watched several episodes of _The Great British Baking Show_ to pass the time, but for the next few minutes she has to just sit here with her thoughts. But she doesn't really have a plan to mull over. All she has is Greg's address, and she hasn't told him that shes coming. It was a pretty last-minute decision, after all. She'd expected that Greg would be coming home for the holiday and she'd planned to talk to him then. But when Hector told Heather and Heather told Rebecca that Greg wasn't coming home, Rebecca decided to buy a not-inexpensive last-minute ticket to fly from LAX to Atlanta on Thanksgiving Day.

Rebecca can only think of one other time when she'd made such a hasty decision to fly across the country.

The difference is, last time she did this in order to lie to everyone (including herself) and get a guy to fall in love with her. This time she's doing it to tell the truth and possibly break a guy's heart for the umpteenth time. But Greg has a girlfriend, who he's apparently in love with (according to Marco), so it's not like she'll be breaking his heart to smithereens. His new girlfriend will be there to pick up the pieces, and then Rebecca won't have to live with that knot in her stomach anymore.

It's not the _most_ rational decision she's ever made, which is why she didn't tell Paula or anyone else that she was doing it.

Over the intercom, a too-pleasant-sounding voice announces their arrival at "Concourse C."

_Seriously? How do I still have four stops to go?_  

She's impatient, and can feel herself losing her nerve. Then she remembers she has the New York Times crossword puzzle app on her phone, and that will be a good distraction. She swipes over to her rarely-visited screen of games apps, and sees something that makes her heart skip a beat: Her Words with Friends app has a notification, and somehow she know's it's from Greg.

_How long has this notification been here? Damn, Paula was right, I really do need to get on board with those push notifications._

She clicks in and sees that Greg invited her to a game.

_What? No communication from you in months except a butt dial and a weird voicemail and now this?_

And not only that, but he'd had the audacity to start it with a measly 7-point word?

_Actually, this might be a good way to break the ice._

_Oh it's on, Serrano._

_***_

By the time Rebecca's Uber pulls up to Greg's apartment building, they're about five moves into the game, and Rebecca spies a perfect set-up on the board.

* * *

Greg is making a turkey sandwich—Thanksgiving dinner—when his phone vibrates on the counter.

"Whoa," he says out loud.

He's still reeling a bit from what Marco told him earlier this week, and he's feeling really weird about the fact that Rebecca still hasn't called him back after he left that rambling voicemail. _Now this—she's just now responding to his Words with Friends game?_

_But actually,_  he thinks, _maybe it's perfect. Maybe this will be a good way to break the ice?_

They're about five moves into the game and Greg's finished his sandwich and is settling in to watch the World Dog Awards (what, he's sentimental, okay?) when Rebecca scores a whopping 66 points; she did it by joining TAN and the letter Y (already on the board) and filling in the spaces between them with her own S, P, O, N and E, I, and T to play SPONTANEITY.

Oof. That's gonna be hard to beat.

Greg starts contemplating his next move, and there's a knock at the door. Probably the UPS guy. He crosses the room thinking about words he could play that have a Q but no U, and opens the door to find two green eyes—the left one a littler greener than the right—looking at him with what looks like a mix of terror and hopefulness.

"Spontaneity!" she says, presenting a silly smile and a jazz hand, "the state or condition of being spontaneous!"

Then her silly smile turns into a nervous one as she lets her lips curl back a bit and says, "Hi, Greg,” from behind clenched teeth.

Greg opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Rebecca can't tell what he's thinking, she wants to melt into a puddle.

Finally, mercifully, he speaks.

"Wow. Hi?" It's more question than greeting.

Suddenly it occurs to Rebecca that maybe this was a mistake. _What if his girlfriend is here? But if she is, then he's been ignoring her and playing word games with me for the past 40 minutes, so... No, stop thinking like that. Just be normal!_

"Can I...come in?"

"Um, yeah, of course. This is just, I'm sorry, this is a surprise?" Everything he says sounds like a question.

"Yeah, sorry to pop in like this. I've decided we're past courtesy," she says, with a wink. She'd actually planned that one.

He gets the joke, and it helps, but he's still slightly off-kilter.

"What're you...doing here? I mean, in Atlanta. Are you here for work or something...oh, it's Thanksgiving...what's...going on..." he trails off as he notices her noticing the TV.

"The World Dog Awards? You're watching the World Dog Awards?!" she looks at him with the puppy doggiest eyes she can muster, which is saying something.

He smiles shyly, "Well, yeah, I don't really like football, so..." and he realizes he still wants her to answer the question, "What are you doing here, again?"

She looks up at the ceiling as she thinks about how to respond, and he takes this moment to really look at her. He hair's longer, darker, her lips are still a small pink bow, she's still so pretty, but different. She's still holding her carry-on in her hand. Tightly.

"Do—do you wanna put that down?" he offers.

She looks down and notices she's white-knuckling the handle of her bag.

"Oh, yeah, thanks."

Greg scoots behind her to close the door and brushes her shoulder slightly as he scoops up her bag and moves it out of the middle of the room, over by the wall. Wow, he smells good, and the feeling of his body moving in such close proximity to hers feels like a particular kind of gravitational pull that’s making her uneasy in a way she kinda really likes.

"So, why am I here. Well, I wanted to talk to you. And I didn't have any plans for Thanksgiving, and then Hector told Heather who told me that you weren't coming home and so, tada, here I am!"

Greg narrows his eyes at her and smiles slightly, calling her bluff without saying a word. _How does he always do that?_

"And also I got your voicemail, and I needed to get out of West Covina because I'm in like this therapy bubble and everybody's treating me like a baby and my therapist says I need to stop being a perfectionist and get a C+ instead of an A+ or something, which probably doesn't make a ton of sense to you, but, I mean" she sighs and digs for courage, "can we talk?"

"Yeah, we can." He can't stop the edges of his mouth from curling up a little. She's so adorable when she rambles, and it makes him want to take care of her.

"Do you want a sandwich?" he smiles, "I already had one, but I think I might have another, because it's Thanksgiving and that's what you do on Thanksgiving, ya know? Anyway, do you want one, too?"

She does.


	4. That Is a Compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thanksgiving, and Rebecca and Greg need to talk. But first, he makes her a turkey sandwich.

Rebecca likes watching Greg fix her a sandwich. She likes it so much, in fact, that it temporarily distracts her from why she’s here. She leans forward, elbows on the counter in his small galley kitchen as she watches him work. He smooths mayo then mustard on the bread, carefully layers thin slices of turkey and Swiss cheese, then salt and pepper.  _Greg uses freshly-ground pepper?_ How they are right now reminds her of him fixing her drinks at Home Base, minus his attitude of self-loathing and deep disdain for his station in life. He’s even humming a little, and she likes the sound of it.

Greg likes fixing a sandwich for Rebecca. She's leaning forward, elbows on the counter, watching him work, and he steals a glance at her cleavage because, well, it's there and it deserves to be admired. How they are right now reminds him of fixing her drinks at Home Base, but better because it's not his job, and they are alone together in his apartment. It's coming into focus now, just how much he's missed being in her orbit. 

The kitchen is small and even with just two people, it’s cramped, but neither of them minds it.

”Escusez moi,” he gestures toward the cabinet behind her head and she ducks.

Greg reaches awkwardly around her to grab the peppercorns from the cabinet, and not entirely by coincidence, he breathes her in. Her hair smells of coconut shampoo, and of her, and of home. He considers dropping what he's doing and hoisting her up onto the counter right now and kissing her, hard and deeply, and letting things proceed from there like they had so many times before in her West Covina kitchen. First, she’d kiss him back and her mouth would be sweet and warm, and utterly his. Then she'd wrap her legs around his torso and deepen the kiss. Then he'd pull her hips toward him, all the way to the edge of the counter, and his hands would find their way under that fluttery dress she’s wearing today and....Yes, for a brief moment, as he is filled with the still-familiar scent of her, he seriously considers acting on this idea.

But stronger than that urge—though only slightly stronger—is his desire to make sure she's okay, to find out what brought her here, to take care of her. (And given the chance to make the countertop thing happen, he would, for sure, _take_ _care_ of Rebecca, but he suspects she might need a different kind of care right now.) 

So he files the countertop idea away, maybe for later.

_Ah, there are the peppercorns._

Rebecca can't stop watching Greg's hands. His hands are so sure, his grip on the knife is just so. She’s all but forgotten how he would hold her face in his hands when they kissed—tenderly, but urgently.

When he reaches awkwardly around her to grab the peppercorns and she feels his dark shirt and his Dove soapy scent envelop her for a moment before he moves back away, she becomes acutely aware that there are mere feet between them. And she's sure she could take just two steps in his direction to close that gap, put herself in-between him and the countertop, ask him to put his deft and steady hands anywhere on her body, and he’d eagerly comply. She knows he would, she can feel it.

Then something about the way Greg bites at his bottom lip a little—like he's working out a math problem in his head as he slices her sandwich diagonally and carefully arranges the triangles on a small plate and hands it to her like an offering—makes Rebecca blush a pretty shade of pink. And Greg notices.

"Pickles?" he asks.

"Oh, no, thank you, this looks delicious." And it really does, and she realizes she's really hungry. _God, what a mensch._

She takes a bite and makes a satisfied sound. Greg likes this sound.

"Is this the part where we say what we're thankful for?" She raises the sandwich up and nods in appreciation, then takes another enthusiastic bite.

Greg lets out a half-laugh, half-psshh, then turns away and grins to himself as he grabs two more slices of bread. He's surprised at how not-weird he's feeling right now. This is a really weird situation, after all. Nonetheless, he's feeling oddly at ease now that she's near him.

He spears a dill pickle chip from the jar with a fork and crunches on it as he starts assembling his own sandwich.

"So, you said you wanted to talk to me?" he glances at her with a raised eyebrow.

Rebecca's mid-bite, and this question snaps her out of her sandwich-making Greg trance.

She takes her time chewing and swallowing before she responds.

"Oh, yeah! Well, you know. Ehrm, I don't know how much you've heard already, but, I, well—“

She stops herself and takes a huge bite of the sandwich, stalling, "This iszh shooo good!" She covers her mouth with her hand as she talks.

Greg screws the lid on the mayo jar and turns to her, "I think I know what you want to talk about."

Rebecca, still chewing, "Ohhhm?" Her eyes big and round with anticipation, and fear.

"Yeah, I mean, I know it was weird of me to leave that voicemail, but after Heather told me what happened...what you..." he's searching for the right words, "I just, I needed to know that you're okay."

He lunges his head forward a little bit and locks eyes with her. "So, that's why I called you. Are you? Okay? Like, really okay?"

Rebecca stands upright, putting her at about the height of Greg's clavicle, which somehow makes her feel even smaller than when she was leaning over a moment ago.

"Oh-Kay!" she declares.

”Yes. Yuppp. I. Am A-Okay. But, I did not fly to Atlanta to tell you that. Nor am I here because you phoned.”

 _Phoned?_ Greg laughs silently and shakes his head. He'd almost forgotten about how she slips inexplicably into over-enunciation and old-timey language sometimes.

She gathers herself and looks bravely right at Greg, albeit through squinted eyes that she hopes will help her disappear, "I came to tell you that, well, I made a huge mistake and I drank too much one night and I was at a really, really low point and, well, I slept with your dad."

She adds, "Marco," as though that point needs clarifying.

Greg looks at Rebecca like she's fully insane.

"What?" The word ends with a hard T.

She exhales, "I slept with your dad." This time she doesn't squint.

"No, I. No."

He drops the butter knife and the thud of it on the linoleum breaks some kind of sound barrier.

"You what? I-I just talked to my dad this week, and he told me that he saw you,"

He's pacing around, gesticulating like he's trying to make sense of it by acting it out. This is Greg at his most Italian.

"And he told me that you passed out and he...you...Gladys...what the fuck is going on. I need to sit down."

Rebecca doesn't know what to do so she pulls a chair out at the table between the kitchen and the living room, but Greg doesn't seem to see her do it, or see her at all, as he walks past her and sits on the middle sofa cushion.

He leans forward and puts his head down, both hands on the back of his neck.

She follows him, "When I woke up I was in his bed and I just—“ 

Greg shushes her, loudly, "Shhh! Can you give me a minute." It's not a question.

Rebecca wants to hug him but she knows she has no right to do that in this moment. And besides, what Greg just said to her about what Marco told him is giving her pause. She's rethinking every detail she can remember from that night, and she doesn't remember much—only that she went home with Marco and she woke up in his bed. Then slipped out. _Exeunt, pursued by a bear..._

She'd filled in the blanks herself, Rebecca is realizing.

She needs to sit down, too, so she moves gingerly across the room and lowers herself onto the cushion next to him, careful not to disturb his. He doesn't seem to notice, his head still down.

Then something on the coffee table catches Rebecca's eye. Next to his phone and his wallet is the photo strip from the booth at the taco festival—she'd burned her copy in the kitchen sink fire after Greg left. The memory of taking those photos comes rushing back to her.

She'd pulled Greg into the booth right before they'd danced to the Mariachi band, thinking at the time about how this was just the kind of memento she could use to make Josh really jealous. She'd sat on Greg’s lap so she'd be tall enough to get both their faces in the frame. He’d liked that part. And before pressing the button in the cramped booth, she'd planned out their four poses and briefed Greg on the plan: _smiling, then kissing, then thumbs up, then shushing._

Big, round tears silently free themselves and roll down Rebecca's cheeks as she remembers telling Greg not to be such a "Grump" when he'd protested, saying, "Kissing photos are tacky" (which they are). And her heart aches as she remembers how he'd ultimately been a good sport (and an excellent kisser) and he’d even seemed pleased when the booth dispensed the prints.

She wishes they were back in that cramped photo booth. He feels so far away. There's way too much space between them. 

She looks at Greg.  _What is he thinking?_  Rebecca's not sure if she's more curious or more afraid to know the answer.

Greg's shoulders rise as he breathes in, then releases his hands from his neck and looks up without looking at her.

"Rebecca, I—“

His phone rings. The screen says "Dad."

Greg is about to turn it off but he sees Rebecca’s eyes shining, watches her swallow a lump, and to her surprise and horror, he chooses "Accept."

"Heyyy Dad," says Greg with the maximum level of sarcastic cheer that he can muster in this moment. Rebecca's taken aback by  his tone.

He doesn't wait for Marco to respond.

"Happy Thanksgiving! Did you sleep with my ex-girlfriend?" He runs the sentences together so they sound like one sentence--bingo, bango, done.

Greg hits speakerphone and puts it on the table, shooting Rebecca a look that says "listen up."

She's definitely listening.

"Well, Greg, I told ya, what happened was—“ Marco starts, but Greg cuts him off.

"No, no." Greg can tell he's about to spin this, and he won't let him. "You told me that you let Rebecca sleep at the house because she was over-served. Is that exactly what happened?"

Greg waits.

One of the macaws shrieks.

Rebecca, mortified, covers her face with her hands and pulls her knees up to her chest, trying to disappear into the sofa fabric.

"Well, look, Son. That broad was three sheets to the—“ This time Gladys interrupts.

”Greg, they were both drunk as a skunk, came in here making a racket. And they both passed out like a couple of regular booze hounds. No offense."

"Thanks for clearing that up, Gladys," Greg says as though he's talking to a customer service agent.

"Bye, Dad," he says in a deadpan.

Greg hangs up the phone turns to Rebecca, whose jaw is on the floor, eyes wide. She is so relieved, but also confused. _Did that really just happen?_

Greg is processing this, he offsets his jaw as he's thinking.

"Okay," says Greg, raising both eyebrows, "We need to talk about what the hell got you into that situation...though I have a few theories,” rolls his eyes, “knowing my dad."

Rebecca picks up her jaw and feels herself nodding.

"But first," he takes a deep breath and pauses for what feels to Rebecca like an eternity, "I need you to know something."

"Okay."

"You-you're,” he takes a long blink, searching for the right word on the backs of his eyelids, "You're my...my _home,_ Rebecca.”

He knows he’s going to need to elaborate on that.

"Rebecca, I am so, so glad that you are safe,” his voice is unsteady, his eyes are catching the light, shining a little.

He swallows, hard.

“But when I heard about what happened to you, what you did, or tried to do, I felt sort of, I don’t know how to describe it... _homeless_ , all of a sudden. I was scared, and angry, that I could have lost you forever. I’ve never felt so alone. I never want to feel that way again, Rebecca."

He's still not happy with how this is coming out, scans her face for any sign that he's making sense.

She releases her limbs from the tight ball she'd curled herself into in corner of the sofa, and moves closer to him. She encroaches on his cushion, but she doesn't feel like a trespasser anymore.

"Greg," she puts her hands on his shoulders, feels them ease downward at her touch, "that was not your fault, none of it. Please never, ever think that."

She sees relief come over his face.

"Yeah, I know that."

Then he sits upright and gives Rebecca a look so earnest and pure and unironic that it nearly knocks her over.

"It's just, I need you to know that even though I had to leave, for me, I want to be with you. And if you’ll have me, I’ll always want that. I'll always come back to you, wherever you are--even if that means making my way back to my crappy hometown." A small wry smile. "You're  _definitely_ starting to fit in there, by the way.”

And in a tone that's at once both lightly mocking and totally sincere, he adds, “That _is_ a compliment."

Her eyes start to smile back at him, and her mouth follows. She tilts her head, wanting to see his face from every angle. She can't think of words, so she just bites her bottom lip.

And she is so beautiful to him that, even though it feels like such a cliche, he can't help but lift his hand to her cheek and caress a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger.

”It’s like _that_ , huh?” she asks, moving even closer to him and smiling because the space between them has finally disappeared.

”Yeah,” he licks his bottom lip and she watches intently as he does, “it’s _totally_ like that.”

 

 

End


End file.
